


Manipulation

by Liz_d_lizzard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Military, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_d_lizzard/pseuds/Liz_d_lizzard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a military prodigy- plucked from his school back home to compete and train in a military academy. His "specialty"? Manipulation. </p>
<p>Dean is a wild card- chosen by the government to train and advance in the same military school and destined to be a high-up War Manufacturer someday.</p>
<p>What will happen when they meet up in an "extra lesson" where they are forced to manipulate each other?</p>
<p>Work in progress, first-time fic :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel

**Author's Note:**

> First time, y'all. :) Be kind... This is shifting POV, announced in bold in the beginning of the chapter. Thanks for reading and any feedback is appreciated! Note: Italicized is a flash-forward... It'll make sense, I swear!

**Castiel**

_It was a hot August afternoon, the kind that makes you want to peel off your skin and take a dive into the dripping sky. The air was stagnant and thick like the pancake syrup my mother used to serve drizzled over her famous breakfast. I sat there on the park bench, drowning in the ocean of air, and studied the flies buzzing around my hair and face. My tongue felt large in my dry mouth and my eyes pressed against my forehead in a headache-inducing blur._

_Mostly, I remember the heat. And more than the heat, I remember the flies. I’m not sure why the flies stuck in my mind of all things, but I can still taste their taunting laughs as they nipped at my hands, my neck, my ears. My eyelids were falling, trying to drag me into much-needed sleep, but mere exhaustion couldn’t break my frigid resolve. I was going to wait. No matter the pain and no matter the crackling fire that seemed to lap at me from all angles._

 

 

\-----------

 

 

This story begins with bright green in a sea of mindless gray.

The halls of my school were teeming with sweaty bodies. The crowd of uniformed adolescents swelled and bulged almost as if a living entity with desires and fears. That’s how I saw the people in my school- just a mass, no thoughts of their own and no promise to society. Most of the students would be gone by next semester, dropouts or rejects etc., so I never really bothered to get to know, or even acknowledge, them until they were second-years. It was the end of a very long day, my classes were brutal, as always, and most minds could focus only on reaching their bunks for much-needed relaxation out of the cramped hallways and July heat. I moved with the mass, feeling very removed and distant as it squelched through the once-white veins that ran through the school, covered in the odd smudges and grime that resulted from life. My shoulder hit a fifth-year’s; I muttered my apologies and moved quickly along down the scuffed tile floor through the mass of bodies.

I maneuvered across the stream of traffic to my blue-gray locker wedged between an advanced military strategy classroom and a remedial war manufacturing class still in session. My combination was intrinsic to my fingers after three years. The lock clicked open and the crusty hinges squeaked in protestation as I wrenched open the door.

My locker was my home, my one area in the school that belonged to me and me alone. When it was first commissioned to me as a first-year, it had the scars of previous owners-- penned-in territorial markings and nicknames of the owner before me. Eventually, I wore those down with soap and returned the old, cheap metal to its former glory. It was clean and simple, and it was my own. I pulled out the supplies I would need for the night’s special lecture, a textbook entitled _AP Personal Manipulation_ , a notebook, and some pencils. I slid the supplies into my bag and pressed my locker closed.

The halls were beginning to slowly drain of people, and soon they were empty. The rhythmic tapping of my boots on the greasy linoleum floated up and bounced off the walls, and I realized that I was alone. I passed many empty classrooms, eyes tilted down and arms tucked close to my sides, the automatic posture I assumed when maneuvering through the school, empty or packed. My mind began to wander and flit about. Mostly, I thought about classes, but my mind kept drifting to the sea of other students that coated the hallways. _Assbutts,_ I thought, _all of them._ I was lost in my own head when I first saw the green.

My highly-trained senses were sensitive even when I wasn’t focusing, and in my peripheral vision, I saw the most shocking viper-green I had ever seen. My attention snapped towards it, wanting to glimpse the source. It was odd, this sensation of interest that I was experiencing. My emotions were strictly constrained most of the time, and for some reason I was suddenly frantic and excited to locate the source of such a vibrant color in a school so consumed in grey. When I turned, however, all I saw were more nondescript lockers and another bleak classroom. My heart sank, realizing that my mind had probably manufactured the green in an attempt to pull myself out of the suffocating depression that seeped from every corner of the school. Disappointed, I turned and continued on.

Through the labyrinth of a school I travelled, consumed in my own thoughts.

Eventually, I reached the exits that opened to the concrete courtyard. I pushed through the glass doors and out into the smoggy afternoon. The sun beat down on my back as I veered across the courtyard and to my dorm building. The façade of the building was similar to the school’s— rough and the color of dirty milk. It was looming and institutional, perfect for its purpose- housing the brightest military prodigies in the country. I climbed the seemingly ever-steeper steps to the front door and entered.

The inside of the dorms smelled of sweat and rotting carpet. They were musty, bland, and claustrophobic, with tight hallways and cramped doorways. Up the stairs I went, passing other boys in my same uniform, never making eye contact but always watching, gauging others’ emotions and actions. After twelve flights of winding steps, I finally reached my floor. My footsteps fell into a quicker cadence as I bee-lined to the entrance of my small room and straight in.

 

\-----------

 

                Hours later, I sat huddled under my pathetic desk lamp, pen in hand. An accumulation of essays and diagrams were spread around me in various degrees of completion. My dorm was perpetually neat; I made sure to keep it that way to retain some shred of control over my life. It was simply outfitted, like the interior designers wanted nothing more than to echo prison cells. The room was dark and saturated in gray paint, sharp lines, and cheap furniture. My metal cot stood pushed into the back corner with my desk at the foot. On the other wall was a gray cabinet that was used to store my uniforms, and next to that the door to my small bathroom area. All in all, it was bleak and unattractive like the rest of the school. The only evidence that a human being lived in the tiny cube of a room was my notebooks and pencils that lay scattered about my bed and desk.

                At around 19:00, a plain white envelope was slid under my doorframe. I didn’t notice for about an hour, absorbed in my monotonous work, until I rose for a brief restroom break. I knew what it was before I opened it. Some nights, professors invited certain students to visit in what were called among the students “world lessons”. Basically, they consisted of the best and brightest students in a certain field of study being challenged and taught by professors looking to pass down lessons that were not suitable for all students to absorb. I frequently was invited to the world lessons.

                Tonight’s invitation read as follows in small, black faunt:

                               

Castiel,

You have been invited to participate in Dr. Azazel’ discussion tonight at 21:00. Please come prepared with standard supplies. Tonight’s topic is:

_Social and Interpersonal Manipulation_

                               

Join us in Room 2150 in the Strategies Building.

 

I snickered. This was an invitation I had been looking forward to all year, as Dr. Azazel was my favorite professor, and Interpersonal Manipulation was not only my passion, but my specialty. I tucked the envelope into my bag along with a pen and a clean notebook, and then dived back into my dormwork, feverishly working to get done before the world lesson.

\-----------

                Mr. Azazel’ classroom was a vast ocean of arena-style chairs all facing a whiteboard at the head of the room. It was easy, especially for a confused first-year, to feel lost and disconnected in such a classroom. However, that was the point.

                The entirety of the school was designed to weed out those who were not the best of the best. Classrooms were huge so as to find those who truly were gifted in their craft, classes were ridiculously demanding and difficult, and teachers did not hesitate to tear students down from their high pedestals. The students who were sent to the school were prodigies, the cream of the crop, hand-picked out of their local schools by the government as the best and brightest military minds of their generation. Somewhere around five hundred fresh, determined faces entered each new year. Less than thirty of them make it to be second-years on average. I, myself, was a third-year at the time, specializing in Interpersonal Manipulation with a secondary specialty in Naval Warfare. I was one of seventeen third-years at my school.

When I entered Dr. Azazel’ classroom, I noticed that there were only seven other students there. I knew six of them. One was Lucifer, a fellow third-year who was specializing in Guerrilla Warfare and Advanced Information Engineering. He was an intense person, all muscle and testosterone with a “take-no-shit” attitude. Another was Gabriel, a fifth-year specializing in Propaganda and Moral Manipulation with a knack for disarming an opponent with only a quick smirk. Anna a second-year, the only girl in the classroom, sat tall as she talked in hushed tones to her brother, Michael, a third-year. Both the red-head and her charismatic brother were specializing in Organizational Tactics and Weaponry. The other two were fourth-years Balthazar and Zachariah. Balthazar was an Undeclared Specialty as he was exceptionally intelligent in all fields and felt as if he “didn’t want to be held down with labels,” his words, not mine.

Zachariah was one of the two students in the room that I didn’t know personally. I had heard rumors about him in hushed conversations between first-years, and, from what I gathered, he was one student that was to be avoided. He was, apparently, a Bio-Weapons and Internal Hierarchy Engineer, the only of his kind ad caliber at the school. Most theorized that the Russians had their eyes on him and that he was going to be shipped into high-up in the Russian chain-of-command upon his graduation in another year. He was usually described as “highly promising” among the faculty.

There was one student in the room, however, that I had never seen before. He was sitting in a desk next to Anna’s, though his head was turned away from all the other students. He was tall and muscular, not unlike most pupils at our school, though he seemed like he had gained his muscle through life experience, not through simulated training like the rest of us. He looked like a real person, not a student training for war.

I’m not sure what compelled me, but I chose to sit in the desk right in front of his, hoping, with no luck, to catch a glimpse of his face before we dove into the discussion.

Dr. Azazel entered the room at exactly 21:00. He was a stocky, brutal man with a deeply creased face and fiery-blue eyes that seemed to set ablaze whomever they fell upon. “Hello, students,” he began in a raspy, over-used voice. “Thank you for joining me tonight. Before we begin with the lecture, could we all introduce ourselves with our names, years, and specialties?” He paused. “Dean, will you start?”

I turned around as the man behind me stood from his desk. He smiled cockily as he spoke in a slight southern drawl, “Dean Winchester, fourth-year, Weapons Manufacturing.”

He looked down at me, meeting my eyes for the first time that night. I inhaled slightly. His eyes were the same shocking viper-green I had seen earlier that day in the hallway. He smiled mischievously down at me, his green eyes meeting my electric-blue. I knew that it was going to be an interesting night in world lessons.


	2. Castiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! Thanks for reading :)

**Castiel**

After the others had introduced themselves, one after another relaying their resumes in a dead, practiced fashion, it was finally my turn. They all turned to look at me, including Dean whose eyes seemed to be burning a hole through me. 

I stood, my credentials on the tip of my tongue.  "Castiel. Third-year. Interpersonal Manipulation and Naval Warfare." I stayed standing, wanting to say more, feeling that for some unexplainable reason what I said wasn't enough. I realized that I was trained to force my entire identity into three pieces of information, and that somehow I was missing something vital, something that I should explain about myself to a certain green-eyed someone... 

Awkward silence gripped the room as I stood there with my inner turmoil on my mind. "Castiel," Dr. Azazel prompted, "is there something... more that you would like to say?" My attention drifted back to him and the situation at hand. 

"What?" I asked, still dazed.

"Is there anything else you would like to say?" 

"Oh. No." I muttered, sitting down. 

"Well then. Let's begin." 

                                                    

\----------------

 

Dr. Azazel started by drawing three columns on the board. At the top of the first column, he wrote "Emotional". At the top of the second "Psychological", and the third "Sexual". This, of course piqued my attention, as that particular subject was not often discussed among driven, egotistic military prodigies. I saw Lucifer and Balthazar sit up a little taller in their chairs at this, clearly fully engaged at this point. 

Dr. Azazel turned and began with,

 "Manipulation. It is an incredibly valuable tool in your arsenal. Over the next few weeks, you will be learning how to use every one of your assets and strengths to manipulate others to your advantage. Your looks, your charm, your logical arguments, your word usage, your intelligence, and your emotional leverage are all at your disposal and are tools to manipulate others. Knowledge and logic can be powerful on a particular audience, but seduction and emotional connection will work almost universally, making these forms particularly useful, though often difficult to master.”

“You all have been specially chosen to participate in this lesson for your various… special talents. Zachariah, your intellect is powerful, but your personal charisma leaves a little to be desired. Lucifer, Balthazar you are exceptionally gifted in emotional manipulation, but need to work in other areas as well. Castiel, you are my prodigy.” My face flushed bright red as I felt Dean’s and everyone else’s eyes land on my face. My eyes didn’t know where to sit in the room, so I just stared back at Dr. Azazel.

He continued, “Your skills are far beyond that of any other student’s in the school. You are here to advance your emotional leverage techniques, which are weak in comparison to the other two fields. Anna, Michael, neither of you is particularly gifted in the manipulation field, and I think you could both significantly benefit from my instruction, so pay particular attention. Dean, we are going to intensify your specific physical skills and make you a force to be reckoned with in the military-political world.” _What the hell does that mean?_ I thought.

“Partner up. Anna, Michael, you cannot be together for this.”

My heart stopped. I knew who I wanted to partner with (definitely NOT Balthazar), but I wasn’t sure how to ask the certain green-eyed beauty behind me. What if he thought I was pathetic and mousy and laughed when I proposed a partnership? Would it be to forward to ask? I didn’t know anything about him, and my little display earlier probably left a sour taste on his palate towards me…

My doubts were alleviated, however, when I felt a finger prod between my shoulder blades. I turned, eyes wide and mouth pressed in an astonished line. “Castiel, right?” Dean asked in a voice barely above a whisper. I nodded a little too quickly, then chastised myself for acting such a fool in front of him. He leaned closer, his breath now tickling my cheeks. “You wanna be my partner?”

My heart fell to my toes. Holy shit. That did not happen. Did it? This god-on-earth did _not_ just ask me, ME, to be his partner. My breathing rate increased rapidly and my mind started going a mile a minute.

It was odd, my heart was racing and my face was flushing in reaction to another _human_. Another person was eliciting within me an emotional response. Why did I care so much about this boy I had just met? He was nothing to me, he was just more competition! So, why in the world was every muscle in my body tensing as I stared into his eyes?

“Sure,” I finally replied with a weak voice.

Dean smiled and winked at me as he sat back into his chair, sending my stomach on another roller coaster through my body.

When I turned back around to face Dr. Azazel, he was holding slips of paper. “On these slips of paper are one of the three types of manipulation. Your task over the next month is to pick a objective and manipulate you partner into fulfilling that objective using the style of manipulation on your sheet. We will meet back here every week to discuss progress. Right now, I don’t want any of you talking to one another so as to not disrupt our little activities. Tonight, I want you to sleep. Tomorrow, I want you to start spending time with one another, but don’t start trying to achieve your objectives yet, just start to familiarize yourself with your partner’s idiosyncrasies.”

He walked around the room, handing out slips of paper. He passed Balthazar and Lucifer, partners surprise surprise, and then Anna and Gabriel, and finally Michael and Zachariah. When I finally received mine, I shakily grabbed it and peeled it open. On it, it read “Emotional”.

Goddammit.

 

\-------------

               

                I had vacated the room at a rapid pace, avoiding Dean, not just because we were instructed to do so, but because I was intimidated by him—his charm, beauty, and overall effect he had on my mind and body. What was I dissolving into? _I am Castiel,_ I told myself. _Manipulation specialist and emotionally composed military prodigy who does NOT get school-girl flustered around a fourth-year that I know nothing about!_ I decided then that this partnership would be one of academic purposes only, and that anything that passed between us was purely scholarly and experimental. I did this to quell my writhing nerves and to gain the composure needed to complete, to the best of my ability, the task at hand. _It is PURELY academic, and no emotion needs to be involved_ , I beat into my subconscious.

 

                How wrong I was.


	3. Dean

I woke up the next morning at 4:30, the scheduled wake-up-time. My face was smeared into my pillow and my sheets were tangled about my legs and wrapped around my torso like fingers that wanted to hold me in the bed forever. But, I had to get up.  
“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” I mumbled to myself as I flopped off my bed and thudded onto the cold, unforgiving linoleum. “Sonofabitch--” I cursed as I stood, achy and bedsore from the pitiful excuse for a mattress that resided in the corner of my room. I had only been in that goddamned school for about thirteen hours and my room already looked like a wolverine had been let loose to blow off some pent-up rage. My bedding was in knots, papers were splattered everywhere, the toilet was clogged, and somehow or other an unidentifiable splatter of god-knows-what had managed to find its way to the ceiling.  
I pulled on my uniform, disgusted by the pristine pleats and cuts of it. I preferred rugged work clothing, but if I was going to train and act like a student, I may as well dress like one.  
This whole “school” thing, it just felt wrong. In every nerve of my body the institutional quality of it here just prickled. This, however, was my job, and I was, in fact, getting paid, so I figured, I’d play along for a while.  
I exited my rinky-dink bedroom and made a bee-line straight to the cafeteria for some food. How sadly disappointed I was when I saw the filth they were serving. The cafeteria was packed to the breaking point with students, all dressed exactly like me, only in different shades of disarray. It was mostly guys, mostly young and mostly brilliant. I felt incredibly out of place. Sam would have loved it, but Sam was on a different mission and they thought, for some reason I was more fit to handle this one. Once my tope tray was splattered with gruel, I maneuvered to the tables. Hmmmm…. Who looks interesting? Or, you know, hot? I scanned the seating area, and was very disappointed by the female selection laid before me. Scary… Intimidating…. Ugh, ugly….  
Then I saw him. Sitting over in the far back next to one of the greasy windows, he was eating alone with his eyes glued to the food in front of him. He was utterly, breathtakingly beautiful, with messy black tousles of hair that stuck every which-way and thick eyelashes that lined the most piercing-blue eyes I’d ever seen, high cheekbones and tinted skin that should have been in a painting. Simply perfect in every way.  
Then I remembered: he was in my lesson last night… Cast—i---el? Was his name? He was just as beautiful the second time, and I was amazed at my own immediate attraction to him.  
I loped towards that corner of the room, skirting between chairs occupied by some of the most brutal people I’d ever bumped into. When I got to the table, Castiel didn’t look up at me, just pushed more mush in between his rosy lips that contrasted so heavily with the bleak and colorless room around us. “Ahhem—” I cleared my throat and he jerked upward, his face stunned and adorable. “Hi… Castiel?” I snickered at his bewildered look.  
“Uh… Hi.” Castiel scrambled for words.  
“I’m Dean, I think we met last night,” I set my food down. “Mind if I sit?” I asked, trying to be polite, but those eyes were making me want to be anything but to this boy. I started eating, Castiel just stared at me, shocked. I said between bites, “I’m new here. I guess I would be a fourth year? Any tips on how to survive this hell hole?”  
Castiel realized I asked him a question after a second of more staring. “Oh… What?”  
I raised an eyebrow at him. And twirled my fork around, gesturing to the crowded room, “This nightmare.” I stabbed a piece of what appeared to be beef with my fork. “How would you recommend dealing with this… shit?”  
“Oh, uhm.” Castiel blushed, then sat up straighter, seeming to gather his wits. “Well, first off, start by introducing yourself properly.” His lips turned up into a small smile. “You sound like a total first-year when you introduce yourself that way.”  
“Okay.” I knew I had broken the ice. “How, then?”  
“Name. Year. Specialty.” He said matter-of-factly. “You do--- know your specialty, right?” My heart fluttered. This kid was flirting with me!  
I put my hand across the table, offering a handshake. “Dean Winchester. Fourth-year. Weapons Manufacturing.” He shook it, a firm, solid grip, but his hands with soft and clean. “How was that?”  
He nodded. “Much better. Castiel Novak. Third-year. Interpersonal Manipulation and Naval Warfare.”  
I snickered. “Nice to officially meet you, Castiel.”


	4. Dean

                “What the hell is ‘Interpersonal Manipulation and Naval Warfare’ anyway? It sounds dirty.”

                 Castiel rolled his eyes at the comment, then explained. “Well, the ‘Naval Warfare’ part is pretty self-explanatory. I’m a Navy Strategist; I’ll one day command my own fleet, if all goes as planned.” He smirked, “The Interpersonal Manipulation part is the specialty I was recruited for.”

                 My eyebrows lifted, interested. “Wait, I thought recruits were pulled in just on test scores?”

                 “No. Well, yes. But not me… I was… I was pulled out of my school for manipulation specifically. They _wanted_ me.” Castiel looked down. He seemed bothered. I waited for a second, then he said, “But that’s a story for another day,” he had a small, guilty smile, then looked back up at me. “What about you? I know our War and Weapons Manufacturing department is ranked second on the planet, highly selective. How did a new student get into such a competitive specialty?” He leaned forward, waiting for an answer, eyes narrowed.

                 “Well, Castiel—damn kid your name’s a mouthful. Can I shorten it to just Cas?” He sat back in his seat, eyes searching my face, looking at me with intelligent, analytical eyes.

                 “Sure. But I’m no kid.” His expression shifted, now looking darker, more intimidating. “Do not underestimate me, Dean. I am a military prodigy and, to the right people, very dangerous. I make a good ally, or an even better enemy. It’s your pick.” His warning tone was dark, and I knew we were going to get along just _dandily_. That little challenge sent my mind into hyper-alert, my resolve thickening and my pulse speeding up. My mind has sort of a flip, you see. I’m normally laid-back and snarky and I float in that stage for most of my time. But, I have my darker, more dominating and ruthless side that rears its ugly head in tense or combat situations. It makes me useful, and in this state I’m brilliant and _very_ volatile.

                 “ _Just_ what I wanted to hear,” I said with a smile, my eyes locking with his. “My brother and I had a fucked up childhood. We were brought up as sons of a mercenary; Mom died giving birth to Sammy. Our father was always moving from customer to customer, a gun for hire with two kids in tow. You can imagine it was an interesting upbringing.” Cas nodded, listening to my story and trying to determine whether he could trust me or not.

                 I continued. “He would leave us in a motel while he was gone on a job for a week or four. Then, when we were old enough, he started teaching us our skills, taking us out and teaching us to fight, partly for our own protection and partly because he didn’t know how else to rear children. We hopped from school to school as we moved, and neither of us got close enough for any faculty to pick us out of the crowds. By thirteen I was a world-class sniper and one of the best shots on the planet. Sammy, my brother, he was… God, he was brilliant, Cas. He had a knack for intel and a brain hardwired for strategy.  The kid was a freak, a savant. He was a fighter, too, terrifying with a knife. We made quite a pair.” I was smiling to myself, talking about my little brother. Cas kept watching me, weighing his options. I met his eyes and took a breath. “Anyway, Dad was killed by a bullet to the chest and Sammy and I were sent to foster care when I was seventeen and he thirteen. After my last grueling year in high school, the military grabbed me for a sniping mission fresh out of school, and eventually they got Sam for a strategist position high-up in the command chain. I’ve been working there for about three years.

                 “Then, on my last mission, I was caught in a shrapnel bomb area and took quite a few fragments in all the wrong places.” Cas looked at me with his vibrant eyes and I had to catch my breath before continuing. “Anyway, one of my commanders knew of my upbringing and pulled some strings to get me into the school so I could train to be a leader while I recover, not just a foot soldier. Once in, I took a placement examination and tested out of everything. The teachers didn’t know where to put me until the general in charge of manufacturing put a disassembled gun in front of me a few days later and it was back together in minutes, working better than it ever had. I guess my ‘intricate knowledge of weaponry’ and my mercenary background placed me in the program. And here I am, sitting with you in this hell-hole waiting to graduate and take my place with Sammy as a commander.”

                 We sat for a moment in silence.

                 Cas was looking at me like he was trying to dissect my mind, trying to understand me.

                 “Your father. Did you hate him?”

                 “Nah. I mean, dude was a total jerk, but he taught me all I know about combat.”

                 “Hm.” Castiel nodded as he hummed with understanding.

                 “I have a question,” I prompted. He nodded again. “This World Studies class? You’re in it, obviously, because it is your specialty. But, why am _I_ in it?”

                 “That is an excellent question,” he spoke, “that I am trying to answer.”

                 “Well, no matter the reason, let’s enjoy it, yeah? I mean, I don’t mind being manipulated by you at all, blue-eyes.” Castiel smiled, his bright teeth gleaming.

                 “Ahhh, I see. But how in the world are you going to be able to manipulate me, the master? I mean, if we’re going to be allies, what are you going to try and get me to do?” He was flirting with me, challenging me.

                 I thought about the little slip of paper I was given yesterday that said “Emotional” on it in small lettering, and I knew exactly what I was going to get this beauty to do: fall in love with me. And you know why? Because Dean Winchester loves a challenge. “Allies, huh?” I smirked.  “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to see what I can come up with.” 


End file.
